I Know Who I Want To Take Me Home- Johnlock
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: Sherlock agrees to go to a bar post-case, the boys go home a bit tipsy, and they finally quit ignoring the sexual tension between them and just go for it. Pretty much PWP, but is heavy on the romance, and a little fluffier than normal for me. I OWN NOTHING.


John had often wondered what Sherlock would be like if he got drunk. He'd never seen the consulting detective drink more than a glass of wine before, so when Lestrade had invited them both to the local pub to celebrate the wrap-up of yet another case, he'd fully expected the taller man to decline, like always. Usually, John went and drank with the Yarders, then came back to soft violin playing which followed him into his blurry, inebriated dreams. It had gotten to be a habit during the time they didn't talk about, when Sherlock was gone, and John had helped them with cases, trying to use things Sherlock had shown him to catch criminals. He hadn't been quite as good at it, but had gotten much better, to the point where that day, he'd actually caught something Sherlock had missed.

The younger man was quiet through the night, not participating in the conversation between John and the others, instead absently running a fingertip around the rim of his glass. He'd opted for wine, of course, but was now on his third glass of the stuff—not bad, but certainly not of the class he was used to—and his mind was beginning to drift pleasantly. It had been a long time since he'd indulged, and the last time he could recall had been just before his days at Uni, when Mycroft had brought a bottle over to celebrate with him, despite his age. They'd been close, back then, before the drugs had driven a deep wedge between them that neither really knew how to navigate now.

He was paying so little attention to what was going on around him that he was actually startled when John touched his upper arm, drawing him out of his own head.

"Sherlock? Are you ready to take off, mate?" That small touch was gone almost as soon as it happened, but he could still feel the warmth on his skin, even through his coat and shirt, as he rose and followed the doctor out into the London night.

It wasn't raining, yet, but there was a pleasant mist that made it seem almost as if they were alone in the world as they walked the streets, not far enough from home that they felt the need to catch a cab. They walked in comfortable silence, their footsteps the only sounds and even those muted and soft, noise whisked away into the fog before it could break the tranquility. If they walked a little closer than normal, arms brushing from time to time, neither of them really noticed.

Between John's experience and Sherlock's preoccupation, neither man had drunk enough to be truly out of it, but they were both a little tipsy. John laughed when the genius had a hard time getting his key in the lock, and to both their surprise, Sherlock turned around and stuck his tongue out at him, the childish gesture something he'd rarely resorted to even in his youth. But it felt oddly right, and as they made their way up the stairs to their flat with exaggerated caution, John found himself wondering what would have happened if he'd taken advantage of that moment of vulnerability to press their mouths together.

The thought nearly froze him in his tracks. It wasn't the first time he'd considered it, certainly—Sherlock was undeniably a beautiful man, and he'd managed to build his whole world around him as proof of his sheer magnetism—but considering it when he was sober and at work, or when Sherlock had been gone, was vastly different from contemplating it while he was a little drunk.

Fortunately, Sherlock didn't seem to notice, so lost as he in his own mind for the moment. John had very nearly relaxed when he looked at him suddenly, looking a little lost. The genius bit his lip and his cheeks colored, and then he abruptly spun away to pick up his violin, coaxing out a melody that was just a little unsteady… and curiously sentimental, for a man who was known to scorn anything to do with sentiment. And his eyes were locked on John's the whole time.

There had been a handful of moments like this one since Sherlock had come back, and John had always assumed they were an indication that he wanted to talk about one of the topics that they had marked as off-limits. Some things, like Moriarty and who they'd been between the Fall and their reunion, they did not discuss. Sometimes it was a bow to the fact that John couldn't stand it, and other times, it was Sherlock's way of showing that he respected that the doctor was entitled to have some privacy.

In these moments, however, that agreement felt as if it was only moments from going sideways, and John always wondered whether a careless word would tip it completely out of balance and break that careful truce. He wasn't sure their friendship could survive as it was, if that happened.

Normally, he simply turned away and made tea, or went shopping, and things were normal when he came back. Or Sherlock would be the one to walk away, wandering the lonely streets or disappearing into his mind palace, breaking the spell with seeming ease. But nobody, it seemed, was walking away tonight. They simply stared at each other across the space, an unspoken, half-considered dare in both their eyes. The moment hung on a breath neither seemed to take for what felt like forever, until John found his feet taking him toward Sherlock, instead of away.

He stopped mere inches from the violin that had gone still and silent in Sherlock's suddenly nearly nerveless fingers, and reached out and set it aside carefully, with clear reverence for the Stradivarius that could produce such beautiful, tortured songs—songs that sounded so much like the beautiful, tortured soul of the man who played them—before dropping his hands and simply staring into those ocean eyes that, for once, weren't glazed over with ice.

Instead, some unnamed need gleamed there, shining like shattered diamonds, the sharp, shattered brilliance an irresistible lure despite its potential to make him bleed. _He says danger, and I come running_… John mused as he reached up and tangled one hand in those dark, glossy curls, moving slowly as if he might scare Sherlock off. There was every chance of that, he knew, judging by the way his lanky frame was just barely trembling, in a way that probably wouldn't have been noticeable if he hadn't been right there, inches away and breathing the same air.

"John," Sherlock murmured, voice strained and scared and yet somehow hopeful, as if the thing he wanted most was the thing he feared. He wasn't alone in that, certainly, and somehow, it made it so much easier to connect their lips, indulging in a soft, lingering kiss. It wasn't about fire, but comfort, and when Sherlock practically melted into him, normally steady hands shaking as they found their way to his shoulders to hold on, John's arm tightened around his waist, a silent reminder that he was there, and always would be, a rock in the storm, a light to guide him home when the world was too much.

Sherlock had never been one to cling to safety, but he would cling to John, because he knew this sense of home wasn't safe at all. It was easily the biggest risk he would ever take, letting himself have this. He knew he would never be satisfied, would always want more, and that it would only complicate things and put them both in more danger. Alone had protected him, and now… now, everything would be different. Before, John Watson had been a limb, and losing him would have hurt, would have been debilitating but survivable. Somehow, between one moment and the next he'd become his beating heart, and his removal would have been instant death to the genius.

And oddly, he didn't mind. Maybe when he wasn't drowning in sensation, he would remember why this was a bad idea, why he'd run from this so long, but it wasn't until he'd been caught, a deer in the headlights, that he'd realized just how tired he was of running. And he didn't quite understand why he'd been doing it for so long, when this was so much… _everything_. For once, his brilliant mind had no adjectives, and lest he begin to sound like John at a crime scene, with all his declarations of amazing and incredible, he decided to quit trying to think entirely, letting himself get lost on the tide of ecstasy a simple kiss shouldn't have been able to produce.

_Finally…_ It was a sigh against his lips, a word that might not have been a word at all, and even as John took his hand and led him to the upstairs bedroom, where he had lube, from taking care of himself alone, and condoms, for when he wasn't alone, he found himself remembering the lyrics that had been playing as they'd left the bar. It was from an older song, one he remembered first hearing on a trip to America back in the 90's. The words echoed in his ears as they scaled the stairs and found their way to the bed together, still clothed for the moment.

_"I know who I want to take me home…" _But home wasn't a place for Sherlock, but a person. _John_. John was his home, and had been almost from that very first night, when he'd found himself falling in love and trying to lie to himself, because he was terrified of changing.

_"Open all the doors and let you out into the world…"_ He'd been closed off before, terrified of trusting anything or anyone. Trusting, he had learned, got you hurt, and anyone who persisted, knowing what the world was really like, was a fool. Never had Sherlock been a fool… never until he realized, somewhere between the moment when John started nibbling on his neck and when those nimble fingers started working on the buttons of his shirt, that he had been trusting John all along anyway, and had only been denying it to himself.

_"I hope you have found a friend…"_ John Watson was his friend, his partner, his conscience, and most importantly, the only person in the world who truly knew him better than he knew himself. Even Moriarty, who had been more like him than he'd ever wanted to admit, had only scratched the surface. It had taken the unassuming army doctor to look into the heart of him, and now, when they were both stripped bare and moving together slotted together like puzzle pieces, Sherlock found himself praying to the universe that he would never, never look away.

_"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end…"_ They lay together, hot and sweaty but unwilling to pull away and break the connection, with John drawing patterns on Sherlock's chest with an absent finger while Sherlock committed the moment to memory. If he had to pick one fragment of his mind palace to save, and sacrifice all else, this was the piece he would choose. Because nothing before this moment, and nothing after it, would ever mean as much to him as the moment when John said, with everything but words, that he felt the same way.

"So what happens now?" John murmured, sounding relaxed and happy. Sherlock couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd ever made anyone feel like that, really, and it caused the spark in his chest to heat even more, a fire that, he knew, would never go out so long as John was around.

"What do you want to happen, John?" Sherlock's voice was a low rumble, and he didn't think he'd ever heard himself sound like that, either. For the first time in his life, he felt… whole. Satisfied and happy and complete. It was strange, but not unwelcome, and that was just another reason to never let the doctor go. He'd meant it, all those years ago, when he'd said he would be lost without his blogger.

"I want this, with you, on a permanent basis. And I don't share." It wasn't a question, but a demand, and Sherlock grinned when he realized it was Captain John Watson speaking now, rather than the quiet, unassuming man in the jumpers with the soft voice and easy smile. He wondered if he there was any way he would be able to get John to pull rank on him in a more intimate way… But that was a conversation for another day. For now, he knew John was waiting for an answer to his non-question.

"I feel the same. I'm likely to be quite possessive, John. I've never been in love before, and I don't know if you really know what you've gotten yourself into." John chuckled, then, moving to steal a kiss before slowly, deliberately biting down on Sherlock's lip, hard enough to bruise. Sherlock's eyes widened; that was definitely going to raise some eyebrows at the Yard.

"I'm pretty sure I can handle it, Sherlock. You say danger, and I come running." And with that, their lips met in another kiss that left them both feeling like they were finally home.


End file.
